An uncommonly bright day in late fall. A woodpecker softly chiseling on the backyard willow. Trunk and branches already infinitely pock-marked. Letters arrive while my eyes are closed and concentrating on closed eyes. They are all the same; always the same. And not worth reading. Somewhere inside the house, a television plays static. Looking for the room rewards me with louder sibilance from somewhere else. The feedback lasts all night. It's fine. It keeps out the despair and the tinnitus.
9:19 a.m. - 2019-11-06
Recent entries:
Remorsels - 2019-11-15
Removing Itself - 2019-11-14
Councilhymns - 2019-11-13
Another Broken Trip - 2019-11-06
Purple Glass Facets - 2019-11-06
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